


Comment Fic and Ficlets

by averita



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-29 10:03:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/averita/pseuds/averita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of standalone ASOIAF/GoT comment fics and short ficlets. Characters/pairings will be updated as needed.</p><p>Latest update features awesome ladies who aren't very happy about being written out of the show and have taken the Iron Throne to prove it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. moebius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the asoiafkinkmeme prompt: Catelyn/Ned or Cersei/Jaime, Reincarnation. 
> 
> "I don’t know how you are so familiar to me—or why it feels less like I am getting to know you and more as though I am remembering who you are. How every smile, every whisper brings me closer to the impossible conclusion that I have known you before, I have loved you before—in another time, a different place, some other existence.” - Lang Leav

They are wed in a small, sunny sept at Riverrun, and all the man can think is that she was never meant to be his. Had they been married in the north, in the eyes of the old gods, the wind may have whispered otherwise. 

After all, they have stood witness to the lives and loves of the Starks since they first existed, even when they are not called Starks. They have come to know this girl who does not belong to the north itself but belongs to the man who now clasps a grey cloak around her shoulders, and they have come to love her even if she does not always know them. And now, even though they do not have eyes in the south, they see what this life holds for them, and they grieve. 

The man and woman have lived a thousand lives and died a thousand deaths with perhaps a thousand more to come, but they do not know this, and will not until this life is over. (It will be over far too soon, the old gods know, but still, it could be worse - there have been lives when they never meet at all, and though those are rare, they are empty, a mistake of fate that must be compensated for the next time.) 

The old gods have seen them wed and bed before the heart tree, have seen him steal her away in the long night, have seen them make homes in castles and huts and tents alike. They have seen the different shades of their skin across kingdoms and continents, and the way her hair can be bright or dull but always, always remains red. They have watched them play together as children and watched them raise their own, watched them fight and fall apart, watched war rip them apart and bring them together and sometimes not touch them at all. 

But now, in the sept, they are strangers with pale faces and strained smiles, and when they kiss it is chaste and fleeting.

It is not until later, when they are alone in her room and silence hangs over them heavier than the sheets, that there is the first spark of something familiar. He touches her cheek, hesitantly, and strokes the long red strands that have escaped the elaborate braids to frame her face.

“Your hair is beautiful,” he tells her, and she smiles.


	2. foundations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really know what this is - random introspection, I guess.

Love comes in a million tiny moments, puzzle pieces that don’t mean anything until suddenly an image emerges half-formed. It grows like your son, slowly and every day until your breath catches at the sight of him, all red curls and mischievous grins, and you barely recognize him as the small, squalling bundle you first held like it might break.

It’s strange for you, you who have always loved so freely and fiercely, and one of the many things you struggle to appreciate in the beginning. Everything in the north seems _muted_ , somehow, the trees barer and colors duller, laughter less easily earned. There is a stillness here, and it takes time for you to look for the beauty in it - longer still to actually see it.

You are a child of summer, of rushing rivers and drifting clouds, reds and blues and lush green grass, but you are also the lady of winter, and you are learning. There is something peaceful in the deep dark of the water, the thick pearly white of the sky after snowfall. Robb’s childish laughter is never louder than with snowflakes in his hair.

Love comes in a million tiny moments, and years from now, perhaps, you will wonder how you didn’t recognize them for what they were. You will hold them close to your heart, memories of sights and senses warming you more than furs and fires ever manage: the sturdy outline of your sept, warm spiced wine in the evening, the quirk of Ned’s mouth and his hand warm on your hip. He says more with his eyes than he does with words, and when you understand this, when you see how the gray shifts from stormy to soft when he moves off you to lie at your side, the silence is somehow precious.

Perhaps you will never see this world entirely through your husband’s eyes, but you are learning to see _him_. The image is not complete, not yet, but the pieces are all there, and sliding more easily into place.

This is a different sort of love, but you think that there is strength in it. You think that it will last.


	3. the pieces of what's left behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She finds the sound of her own heartbeat unnerving here in this underworld. This is not a place for living creatures, she thinks, and somehow, after everything, she is still alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Game of Ships Ghost Week gothic literature challenge.

Sansa has never liked the crypts. When she was young, her father brought her, Robb, and Jon down to pay their respects to their ancestors - he pointed out the statues of his father and siblings, and she had dutifully knelt and offered her prayers, but though she tried not to show it, the stone faces frightened her. The eyes were blank, the wrong sort of grey, and underground, everything was cast in shadow by the long, licking flames of the torch her father carried. Her brave front had fallen apart when Robb leapt out from behind one of the old winter kings and grabbed her, laughing. She wept, and though she later accepted Robb’s mumbled, shame-faced apology, her father never made her go back.

She smiles now, a slight, wistful smile that has nonetheless been hard-earned, and squeezes the same hand she remembers awkwardly patting her head that day. “Thank you for coming with me,” she says quietly, voice echoing in the dusty underground air.

Jon Snow - her brother-turned-cousin, the commander of her guard, the boy she had tolerated and the man she now trusts above all others - lifts her hand to his lips. “I’ll be right here,” he promises. 

His are the only promises she has faith in these days, but they are enough. They had seen her safely home, had seen Winterfell come to life again, and had seen the remnants of their family taken care of. There is little more she could want, and if she does, sometimes, well, she has long since learned that some dreams are best left unrealized. 

The crypts stretch in front of her, a morbid labyrinth; it is colder here than outside, now that spring has come to Westeros. Pulling her cloak more tightly around her, she bends to lift the heavy wooden chest at their feet. Jon had carried it from the castle and through the rough ironwood door down the winding, uneven stairs, past the statues at the base and through the long, sewer-like tunnels, but they are nearly there, and Sansa must go the rest of the way alone.

It is not a long walk from here, but she misses the thud of his footsteps; her own are light, even with the chest she carries, and she finds the sound of her own heartbeat unnerving here in this underworld. This is not a place for living creatures, she thinks, and somehow, after everything, she is still alive.

The bronze and iron crown resting on Robb’s stone curls is the first worn by a Stark in over three hundred years. It’s strange to think of her brother, the boy who had scared her here so many years ago, as one of the Kings of Winter. She remembers him as a laughing child with red hair like her own, nothing like the dark, solemn faces she associates with the Kings in the North. There are all kinds of kings, she knows well enough, but looking into the empty white eyes of her brother’s likeness is still disconcerting. 

Next to him is her father’s empty tomb, and between them, a patch of shadows darker than the rest. It moves as she approaches, sinking back into the cobwebby corners of the graves. Sansa gently places the chest on the ground, ignoring the dirt that puffs up around it, and stretches a hand out towards the shape.

"Mother," she says, and swallows around the lump in her throat. "Mother, it’s me. It’s Sansa."

The shape - slowly becoming recognizable as a human figure wrapped in a dark cloak - shrinks back even further. Sansa’s eyes sting in the dust. 

"Mother," she says again, using the same careful, steady voice she uses to soothe Rickon when he’s in one of his wild states. "I brought something with me. Come out, please."

The figure makes a noise, a low, pained moan. “Please,” Sansa repeats. She realizes her hand is shaking, and she drops it, fisting it at her side until her nails cut the skin of her palm.

It was Jon who found what was left of her mother here after the sacking of the Twins, when he ventured down to bring Robb to his final resting place. Later he confessed that he nearly didn’t tell her, didn’t want her to have to face what had become of her lady mother, but the lady had asked him to bring Sansa to her, and in the end, he had obeyed. 

For all that he had tried to prepare her, Sansa had wept, and so had the lady called Stoneheart, whose name had seemed so fitting deep in the crypts. She had kept her hood up and cloak tightly around her, reaching out only to touch Sansa’s face with soft clumsy fingers so unlike those she remembered. “I’m sorry,” Sansa had sobbed, “I’m so sorry, I love you.” Jon’s hand had been warm on her back as Sansa had grieved for her mother and for the terrible warped version that had somehow been left behind when everything else was gone. 

The lady never spoke to her. She even wept silently, her tears cold on Sansa’s skin when Sansa tried to embrace her. She had only nodded when Sansa had dried her eyes and promised that she was okay, she was safe, and she would always love her before Jon had taken her away and held her for a long, long time.

She spoke to Jon, though, and Sansa had wept again when he told her not to return. “She doesn’t want you to see her like that,” he told her. “She knows you’re okay, now, and that’s enough, I think, that’s as much peace as she can have.”

In the end Sansa had agreed, and fought the bitter relief she’d felt. She wasn’t sure what the creature in the crypts was - it wasn’t her mother - but it was some remnant of her, and it was protecting her in its own way.

Now, it shifts again in front of her, and slowly unfolds itself to rise. 

"I’m sorry," Sansa tells it - _her_ , she corrects herself. They can pretend, for this. "I know I said I wouldn’t come back, but it had to be a Stark." _It had to be me_. 

The woman moves closer, hood drawn low and cloak clutched tightly around her like a blanket. She stops several feet in front of Sansa, who knows the moment she registers the chest between them - she makes the same sound again, a low keening noise, thick with grief. 

Sansa sucks in her breath and moves forward - the woman flinches but allows her to guide her to the chest. She feels brittle, her vertebrae like knives under Sansa’s hand, and when they kneel she struggles to open the latch. 

The woman shudders when she takes in the sight of bones and dust. “We found him,” Sansa whispers, her chest aching. “We brought him home.”

It takes a moment for her to realize that the sounds the woman is making are no longer wordless. “Ned,” she is whispering, hand on her throat. “ _Ned_.”

Sansa is stronger than she was, in so many ways. She rises and moves aside the heavy stone lid of her father’s tomb, wincing at the scraping echo. The woman hisses when she returns, lurching forward to cover the open chest with her body, before seeming to remember that it is only Sansa. Even then, she pulls back hesitantly. The movement loosened her hood; her eyes are visible now, glinting and wary.

"Let’s let him rest, Mother," Sansa says quietly. This time, the woman lets her lift it, and together, they settle the chest into the gaping mouth of the tomb.

Somehow, Sansa is not surprised when her mother climbs in after it. She lies down, curling onto her side next to the chest and tracing a long white finger over a carving of a wolf. 

Sansa looks again at Robb - the crown on his head, the great stone direwolf at his side - and then at her father. She remembers how scared she was the day Robb jumped out at her, but more than that, she remembers the way her father had smelled when he lifted her up and she’d buried her head in his neck. He’d carried her all the way up the stairs and back to the castle, singing the songs she loved until she’d stopped crying. He’d never been able to remember the words, she recalls, laughter hurting her chest, but he’d try nonetheless.

He’d carried her back to the castle and gone to deal with Robb, leaving her with her mother, who had gentled her with her warm, soft hands. “There are many ghosts in Winterfell, my sweet,” she’d said, stroking her hair, “but they’re not evil spirits, and they’ll do you no harm. They are the Starks of old, and they’re here to protect you, the same way your father and I will protect you even when we’re gone.”

Tears burn Sansa’s cheeks as she looks back inside the tomb. The woman looks more like her mother than she ever has before; when their eyes meet, hers are gentle. “Sansa,” she says softly, and in that word, Sansa knows what she is being asked to do.

Her mother settles at her nod, her forehead resting against the side of the chest and eyes drifting shut. Sansa can see the angry red lines on her cheeks, but the other lines, the creases of age and anger and pain, are softer. Curled up as she is, she looks childlike - she looks _peaceful_.

She doesn’t move when Sansa slides the stone lid back into place.


	4. in my living fire i will keep your heartache and mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the gameofships Hump Day Challenge on 11/13/13. Title from "Fire" by Kristin Cashore.

Ned had barely spoken since he returned from the godswood with blood on his boots and snow in his hair. He joined them in the hall for supper but ate little, and though he smiled and kissed the children good night as usual, Catelyn thought that even that seemed forced.

Now he is slumped in the large chair by the fire, gazing sightlessly into the flames. “Ned?” she asks softly, hovering just inside the door frame.

He jumps. “Catelyn,” he says, half rising to face her. She enters properly, closing the door securely behind her and moving forward to place a hand on his shoulder and urge him back into the seat.

“I wondered if you would come to bed,” she says hesitantly, pulling her robe tightly around her and lowering herself to sit on the floor beside his legs. The fire is almost uncomfortably warm so close to her.

Ned is silent, his eyes dark and conflicted. Catelyn turns more fully to face him, leaning against the chair and looking up at him. “Ned,” she repeats quietly, reaching for his hand - he lets out a long sigh, and squeezes hers tightly. “Come to bed.”

Again, he doesn’t reply, but fingers a braid with his free hand. “Turn around,” he finally says, and she complies, pulling her knees to her chest and bending her neck forward to allow him easier access. At Riverrun she always slept with her hair plaited, but since Ned had begun to spend more nights with her, more often than not it remains loose. She had been amused and somewhat baffled at his fascination with the intricacies of the styles she wore, but they both seem to find pleasure in the time he takes unbinding and brushing her hair, and so it has become something of a ritual. (She still thrills a little at the fact that she has found such pleasurable, domestic routines with this man, the husband she hadn’t thought to have - it had taken time, yes, years and wars and three babes, but she cherishes the intimacy for how hard-won it was.)

Now, though, he seems to be taking more solace than pleasure as he begins unwinding the first of the braids. The motion is familiar and steady, and she lets out a contented hum as the pads of his fingers brush her scalp.

She wonders if she should speak. She has learned that shared silence is a form of communication in itself, and one that she has come to appreciate, but it is heavier than usual tonight, and she, at least, finds little comfort in it. She could speak of Robb’s new training sword and the bruises half of Winterfell will be sporting in the coming weeks; could speak of Sansa’s fascination with the kittens in the barn, or the handful of flowers that Arya ate today. She could speak of business matters, winter stores or the cracks forming in the glass garden, or of plans for the coming weeks, or anything, really, to take their minds from the day’s events.

Ned has never liked delivering the king’s justice, but this particular execution had hit him harder than usual. He had said little on the subject, only that the man in question had grown up near Winterfell, but she had learned from Maester Luwin that he was a son of the old master of horse and had been a close childhood friend of Lyanna’s. He had joined the Night’s Watch shortly after the rebellion, and several days ago, for reasons best known to himself, had broken his vows and fled Castle Black.

Ned’s fingers thread through her hair, sifting through the strands. She could speak, yes, but nothing seems right, and her husband has always communicated best in other ways in any case. Turning back towards him, she takes his hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles and rising to face him properly.

***

She looks like something from a myth, her body lit from behind by the flames, her hair long and loose. Ned swallows, reaching for her, and she climbs onto his lap as he grasps her hips. Her skin is warm and her mouth warmer, soft and insistent against his.

He slides his palm down her thigh where it straddles his own, slipping past the fold of her robe and gathering the thin material of her shift in his fist. One of her hand curls around his neck, gripping the short hairs at the nape of it, and she reaches between them with the other to clumsily unknot the tie of her robe; she shrugs one shoulder out of it, and Ned pushes it from the other so that only the shift remains.

She makes that sound when he drags his lips along her jaw, that sound he first heard their third night together - a helpless-sounding hum from somewhere deep in her throat. He clutches her more tightly, urging her up so that he can pull the shift up further, until her thighs are bare against his lap. “Ned,” she murmurs, rolling her hips into him, and he tilts his head back and swallows.

She kisses him again, more urgently, fingers working the laces of his breeches. When she reaches inside and starts stroking him he groans, tightening his grip on her hips and fighting to remain still. Her hair looks like it truly is on fire and she is so very warm against him, warm enough that he feels something inside him crack like the first thaw after winter. Suddenly she isn’t close enough - it feels like she can never be, not when they can only come together in one place, not when he holds her so tightly he can feel his own pulse on her skin and yet still he can’t disappear entirely into her.

He can try, though, and if she’s surprised when he shoves her smallclothes aside and roughly runs his fingers over her sex, she recovers quickly, grinding down against him and moaning. She’s ready - more than - and normally he’d take his time, but the fire is in his blood now, and her cry when he thrusts up into her is high and raw. She grips one shoulder and the back of the chair, leaning forward for a deeper angle, and he holds her close, his hand fisting once more in her shift and pressing into the small of her back. The thin linen of his tunic is damp, but he can’t bring himself to let go long enough to remove it.

His motion is limited in this position, but Catelyn sets a hard, quick rhythm that quickly has his head spinning. Her breath is hot in his ear when he buries his face in her neck; the skin there is slick and salty, and with his eyes shut and a roaring in his ears, the tightness of her around him is even more intense. It’s not long before he feels his release gathering low in his belly. He surges up, reaching blindly and belatedly between them, and spends inside her with a shudder.

When he moves to pull back she presses his head back against her shoulder, curling her fingers in his hair and letting go of the chair to meet his hand with her own between their bodies. She touches herself, nails brushing against his softening cock, and when she comes it’s with a thready cry and warm pulses around him that leave him gasping as well.

Coming back to himself is a slow process, and one he isn’t in any particular hurry to speed up. Catelyn breathes out a contented sigh as she lifts herself off him and swings a leg over his thighs to settle more comfortably on his lap, her head nestled against his chin. He feels her heartbeat slowing down, and for a moment, it seems to match his own.

“I’m sorry, my love,” she murmurs into his chest. “You shouldn’t have been put in that position.”

 _That is my position_ , he thinks, but doesn’t say. She knows that, just as she knows it wasn’t meant to be. He can still see the once-familiar eyes, half crazed and glaring at him, and feel the weight of the sword in his hands; even now, it’s an effort to wrench his focus back to the more comforting weight of his wife in his arms.

He presses a kiss to her forehead, and Catelyn nuzzles his neck, stifling a yawn. Sleep will not come so easily to him, he knows, but if he is to lie awake all night, he can think of worse ways to do so.


	5. The Wrath of Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As furious as I get about Catelyn hate, I have a feeling Ned would take it even worse. Cat haters need not read.

Catelyn might call him old-fashioned, but Ned Stark preferred to think of himself as “traditional”. While there were aspects of this unexpected afterlife that he had come to appreciate - hot showers and electricity among them - he was less enthralled than the rest of his family by the many wonders of modern technology. He found little pleasure in the television shows his children so enjoyed, had had to much of war to find entertainment in the games Rickon was so fond of, and was utterly uninterested in the so-called wonders of the World Wide Web.

So it was Robert’s fault, as it so often was, that he found himself starting at the forums of westeros.org with fury building steadily in his chest. “They’re talking about your wife, man!” Robert had roared, indignant on Cat’s behalf, but the irritation that his friend had displayed had nothing on the brutal, unsatisfying urge to reach into the screen and wrap his hands around the throats of every ignorant, hateful, blind fool writing on these boards.

He hadn’t realized how tense he had become until he felt a slim hand on his shoulder and jumped. “What’s this?” Cat asked teasingly, perching herself on the side of his chair. “Has my husband seen the light of the modern world, or has he been replaced by some stranger?”

Ned said nothing, merely ground his teeth together. It felt good despite the ache in his jaw, and he felt a newfound respect for Stannis Baratheon.

After a long moment of silence Cat began to look concerned, and then directed her gaze to the screen. Her face fell. “Oh, Ned, why would you waste time reading this nonsense?” she scolded, her grip on his shoulder tightening. “No good will come of it.”

“You knew about this?” Ned demanded, turning to face her fully. “You’ve seen what they’re saying?”

“A bit of it, yes,” Cat admitted. “Arya was threatening violence so I took a look so that I could talk to her about it. In the end, no blood was shed.” She smiled briefly. “Ned, this sort of nastiness - it does no good to dwell on it. I don’t.”

“But it’s _wrong_ ,” Ned burst out, unable to stop himself. “It doesn’t make sense. They say you started the war when you arrested the imp -” Catelyn pursed her lips but said nothing - “but you were on your way to Winterfell! You had no choice once he saw you at the inn, especially after what Littlefinger had told you.” The one thing he had seen on this cursed contraption that he felt had some merit was that Catelyn had been wrong to trust Littlefinger, but he supposed he was biased in the matter; at that point, the only reason he had to mistrust the man was the way he looked at his wife, and he hadn’t shared a happy childhood with him.

Catelyn frowned. “That incident played its role in starting the war, yes, and I regret that, but I am not fool enough to blame myself. Lysa and Petyr killed Jon Arryn, the Lannisters arranged Robert’s death, you discovered the truth of the Lannister bastards - this war was inevitable, and I did my best. Anyone who says otherwise is failing to see beyond what they wish to.”

“But it’s what you said,” Ned growled, frustrated. “All of those people played their parts - why do they blame _you_? And that’s not all!” Part of him felt that he should stop, realizing that little good would come of hashing out unpleasant things said about Cat, but his rage was too great. “They say you are a bad mother. How can anyone say that? You followed our son into war, you counseled him wisely even when he failed to listen. You raised them well and loved them more than I could ever have dreamed of - you fought off an assassin with your bare hands! And yet they judge you for being one person instead of five? For falling apart when our son was in a coma?”

“Don’t forget Jon Snow,” Catelyn said, and though her tone was light, there was tension lining her face.

Ned chose his next words carefully - though there were no more secrets between them, and the anger and sadness following the revelations had faded, even now this would never be a comfortable topic. “You allowed Jon into our home,” he finally said, “and allowed him to be raised alongside our children, though such a thing was practically unheard of. You forgave me this dishonor and built a family with me. Perhaps you were not kind to Jon, but neither did you mistreat him, save for lashing out once in a sleep-deprived, distraught state and saying something you would not have otherwise. All in all, my lady, you allowed him a happy childhood despite the shame it brought you and the threat you thought he represented, and that is more than any man could reasonably ask a woman in your position.”

Catelyn nodded tightly, blinking away the glassiness in her eyes. It was not often they spoke of such things, and the rare times they gave words to them would always, she suspected, be emotional. 

“But why does no one ever blame _me_?” Ned demanded. “I am the one who refused to speak of his mother, who allowed the pain to fester for the both of you, no matter my reasons. I am the one who left you alone to care for our children while Bran was in a coma. I risked our daughter’s lives by telling the queen what I knew, and lost my own for my trouble.”

“And you would do it differently knowing what you do now,” Catelyn countered, “as would I, as would all of our children, no doubt, and likely every person we know. But Ned, you did what you thought was right with the knowledge you had at the time, and though I may wish you had done things differently, I cannot fault your intentions.” She sighed deeply. “For whatever reason I am an easy target, and I will admit that it hurt to see people blaming me when I spent so much time blaming myself for the same things, but at the end of the day I find it hard to take seriously the opinions of those who despise a mother trying to save her family more than they do Ramsey Snow.” At this, Ned actually growled, and a hint of amusement flashed in Catelyn’s eyes. “I am human, I am flawed, I have made mistakes, and I must live with them, as must we all. Reading this does nothing but cause distress.” She smiled suddenly. “Besides, for all of this nonsense, there are some lovely, well-written essays written in my defense, and though they are unnecessary, it’s nice to see that the intellectual fans see that there is more nuance to me. I would hate to be so one-note.”

Ned shook his head, disgruntled. “Gods, people are idiots,” he growled, but leaned back, relaxing slightly into her touch.

“I know,” Catelyn said sympathetically, though her mouth twitched as though she were fighting a smile. “But the only opinions that matter to me are those of my family, and they seem to hold me in high enough esteem.” Ned grunted, not quite able to laugh just yet, but she merely wrapped her arm around his neck and leaned her head against his. “And it helps to have my shining knight leaping to my defense.” She paused. “Not to mention Arya.”

At this, Ned did let out a snort. “Yes, I can imagine,” he said ruefully, picturing his little daughter – not so little now, in truth, but she would always be so in his mid – brandishing her trusty sword and plunging it through the clear screen of the computer and into every ignorant bastard talking about his wife. While he normally cautioned prudence and a steady hand, he couldn’t help but find the thought reassuring. He had no doubt that the rest of his children, should they see these words, would respond just as vehemently – Robb and Rickon with violent, barely tempered fury, Sansa and Bran with a colder but no less deadly wrath; likely even Jon, indignant on behalf of his cousins and the memory of the true monsters he had faced. And Ned – yes, Ned would ride into battle and cast down every liar and slanderer himself, but looking again at his wife’s warm, dear face, he reluctantly admitted that it would serve little purpose but to soothe his own rage. Even that prospect, satisfying as it may sound, would not be enough to tempt him from Catelyn’s side. He had no intention of ever leaving it again.

“All right,” he finally grumbled, leaning back from her enough to meet her eyes. “But I want this computer gone. I won’t have this trash in my home.”

Catelyn smiled, the soft lines around her eyes crinkling. “All right,” she agreed reasonably enough, “but I think you might want to reconsider. Not everything on the internet is terrible, you know,” she teased, a wickedness in her voice that made his ears perk up. “There are some stories you might enjoy reading…”

Ned stared at her, bewildered – stories? – but decided the conversation (and indeed all conversation) could wait. He kissed her, pulling her from the side of the chair to land in his lap, and felt something tight in his chest give way as she giggled against him, her lips curling against his.

“I love you,” he said quietly when they drew breath, many long moments later. “More than anything.”

“I know,” Cat murmured, putting her hand to his cheek and pressing her forehead to his. “That’s all that matters to me.”

And as he kissed her again, she breathed a silent sigh of relief that one crisis seemed to have been averted. _Gods help us if he ever sees what they say about Sansa…_


	6. who rules the world?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the TOTALLY LEGIT and not at all bizarre/disappointing casting and character decisions made by those in charge of Game of Thrones these days.

Myrcella frowns, shifting awkwardly on the massive, ugly throne. "It's uncomfortable."

"Quit complaining," Arianne replies. "Your Grace."

Jeyne laughs. "At least you have a throne," she says. "I never actually got one." Myrcella scowls at the other girls, shaking her head. 

"Remind me why you two are here again."

"Because you wouldn't be here without them," Val chimes in helpfully. "Well, without Arianne, at least." She fingers a lock of Arianne's dark silky hair, and smirks. 

They're an odd group, Myrcella thinks, not for the first time, but she's grateful that the misery of the past decade has brought her these unlikely companions. Arianne, of course, has been by her side for years, but she values her newer friends no less; Val, the bold and beautiful princess, bewildered by the south but happy to help build something worthwhile from the ashes of what was once Westeros; Jeyne, the sweetest girl Myrcella has ever known (and, she thinks with a flush, the most generous, especially in the bedchamber), but steely, too; Mya, quick and clever, and happy to keep them all grounded when their royal backgrounds become too apparent. And of course, there is the Lady, who watches over them like a silent hooded spectre; since Jeyne found her and they joined forces to destroy those who had betrayed them, she has not strayed from the girl's side. 

The war ripped the kingdoms apart, and everyone she had ever known - and most that she hadn't known, for that matter - had died surprisingly gruesome deaths, but in the end, Myrcella can't think of anyone she'd rather be left standing with. 

"Do you want to try it?" she asks Jeyne, and the normally demure young woman leaps to her feet, her soft brown curls bouncing around her face. 

"I might as well," she grins. "Not like I'll have another chance." 

"Are the boys ready to destroy it, then?" Mya asks curiously. Jeyne waits for Myrcella to move, but she merely shifts to the side and pats the space next to her, which Jeyne gingerly squeezes into. 

"Pyp and Grenn say they are," Val shrugs. "I'm not sure how they plan to do it, but Jojen has his magic. Perhaps he has some trick up his sleeve."

"It'll be good to finally be rid of it," Arianne sighs. "It's caused nothing but trouble." 

(In the corner, Lady Stoneheart hisses in vehement agreement.)

Myrcella bites her lip, leaning into Jeyne and looking wistfully around the throne room. Her old life had brought her little but misery and fear, but it was still a part of her, and she can't help but mourn the young girl she had been. 

Mostly, though, she is proud of the woman she has become, and the women she now shares her life with. After everything, they are all that is left, and together, they will make something new. Something better. 

Something that will not be erased.


End file.
